


I Don't Mind

by WendigoDreaming



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bittersweet, Drunk Sex, M/M, all these feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendigoDreaming/pseuds/WendigoDreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John decides he wants to be greedy. Takes place during/after the stag night. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Mind

Warm, drunk hands clumsily spread across his thighs, slipping further along the material until they stroked all along the seams. Every nerve was excited, mimicking the neurons in his brain firing off signals all across his body with every small twitch of fingers. Sherlock’s body was usually a fine tuned computer with the capacity to make these small, microscopic connections both biologically and logically, but the alcohol was misfiring messages. Instead of sending them to his brain, they travelled south to ignite under John’s touch and gather between his legs.

“Mm, I shouldn’t- we shouldn’t.” John’s slurred voice reeked of alcohol and the smell alone was telling that he was far over… what was the legal limit? Point seven… or eight? Fortunate for both for them they weren’t driving anywhere. 

“I don’t… mind.” He had never minded, ever. Not the quips at him, or the atrocious, grammar-lacking blog, or the mind numbing stupidity that sometimes stunned him into complete silence for days on end. He had minded the touching at first and the concrete, observable instances of affections but the alcohol had drained his nerves away. Sherlock’s lips formed the words and yet the connections weren’t firing to his brain. The normal ones that detested this sort of physical contact and were quick to shut it down. His legs spread open instead and the room felt just a little more suffocating. The air between them wasn’t tense as it was… heavy.

John slipped down off the chair with a small thud and Sherlock couldn’t help but crane down further, following the path his face took to keep trying to read his face. The calculations—something was off—it didn’t make sense. Everything was off in the situation but there remained little sanity left to correct it. “John… _John_ …” He breathed out, catching the face that wouldn’t stop moving in his hands. “We shouldn’t.” He agreed. Ah, there the sanity was, making a late and yet much needed appearance.

“Gods, I liked your… your previous statement better.” John’s hands slid forward and Sherlock’s head hit the chair with a thunk. _Sherlock, think. Concentrate- no not on the hands. Lord knows those hands are not the thing you want to be focusing on… even if they are_ , Sherlock hissed, _dangerously close to an area they should not be venturing._

“No.” Sherlock murmured, tasting too airy on his tongue. It was his friend- best friend apparently. He wasn’t supposed to have these inclinations and although it was not his area Sherlock was as sure as his drunk brain could be that this was _not_ how best friends were supposed to behave on a stag night. According to the websites washed up strippers with daddy-issues and stretch marks indicative of two children (different fathers if her profession is to be considered) were acceptable, not this. Then John’s hands found him, gave a tight squeeze and his mind went silent. “ _Yes._ ” He corrected himself once again; was he ever changeable.

“Fuck yes.” John agreed, his hands plucking at his belt and Sherlock grabbed onto his own hair, shaking it out in an attempt to sober up as those warm hands delved down and raked all along the hair framing his own cock. His useless drunken brain supplied him with a few choice images that had been stored deep in the basement of his mind castle. Every important thought had been stored, included the less than savoury thoughts he had had of John. “I’m greedy…” John breathed out as his hands freed Sherlock and his alcohol saddened mouth sucked right under the crown. 

Sherlock’s head snapped back up and stared down between his legs at the mess of sandy hair and flushing cheeks before John took it right into his mouth. Tongue right at the pulse point, enough pressure, no teeth, and open throat. This was not his first time and that thought both settled his stomach and caused it to tighten up.

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. He was a creature of rational behaviour and John was a creature of passion and instinct. Why couldn’t he be rational now? “We’re drunk. No… Mary.” Sherlock made out uselessly as he absorbed himself in watching John’s lips tighten right near the base of him and then a sharp inhale hit him with another dose of the toxic, heavy air as John’s nose brushed the dark curls. _No, no, no…. but gods yes._

He pulled off and a god awful slurred sound almost left his mouth as John’s calloused hand pulled at him. This was what he got for refusing to commit to a weekly masturbation session, over sensitivity and the inability to think straight. 

Everything blurred but Sherlock watched John’s wet lips form words right against his own cock. “I’m greedy, I want… you both. You, Mary, me… Please.”

“Oh no, don’t please… do not please me John,” Sherlock grunted out, “Hamish… Watson. You know how I hate begging. It’s indicative of weakness and the inability to get what you want without resorting to underhanded tactics.” All he could do was speak to keep himself from processing the plea. If he pulled it apart and tried it on it would lead somewhere dangerous.

“Hold on, you love begging.” John corrected him with a cheeky smile and Sherlock couldn’t help but push his foot over against John’s crotch.

John was hard. 

Yes, brilliant deduction.

John’s face pulled up as Sherlock’s socked feet pushed up experimentally against him. “Occasionally.” Sherlock finally admitted. Then John’s hips lowered down to grind against his foot and Sherlock snapped it back, flushed. The foot was refusing to fire signals anywhere past his own member. Nothing was reaching his brain anymore and when Sherlock’s hands wound into John’s shirt and yanked him up and into the chair with him the adrenal medulla did not release catecholamines. No danger hormones alerted him that it was a terrible, horrible idea to snog your best friend deeply.

Chemistry failed him as they stumbled up the stairs locked together. It failed him when shirts were flung off as they stumbled in drunkenly to Sherlock’s old room. If anything it worked against him as he babbled on about the logistics of how his size made him “perfectly and genetically inclined to penetrate”.

John’s cock, shorter and thicker than he had considered, fell heavy in his hand as he laid back and opened himself up for Sherlock. John was his first of many things, and it was the first time anyone had ever been so vulnerable with him. Guilt was too far gone now to pull him back down to earth.

His mouth tasted of beer and everything was swirling around him. Every silly emotion he’d ignored pulled him in every direction possible until he swore he’d break apart. “John, stop-.” Sherlock hissed out deeply when John had climbed into his lap and he felt the entrance squeeze right around the head of his cock perfectly.

“Stop?” John asked hoarsely, his hands yanking right at the roots, his fingernails scraping in a way Sherlock hadn’t known he’d liked until then. “Stop? Jesus Sherlock I’m on your cock.”

Then he tightened right up and logic finally seeped out of him. The constant chatter receded at the shock of white, hot pleasure. This was what it felt like to be in a simple mind, a brain that was solely focused on one thing and one thing alone. It was laughably animalistic to be focused on one need and one need only. Release, burying his face into John and marking him. Not Mary’s, his. Things would change, he’d leave him and the fear of it focused the blinding need to pinpoint it down to possession.  “No, don’t stop John.” Sherlock insisted tightly, sweaty hands wrapped around his the small of his back.

The slick sound of lube and skin filled the room and Sherlock balked at the tight heat around him. “Don’t stop.” He repeated dumbly, leaning forward and taking just an inch of John’s sticky skin into his mouth. He murmured the words against the skin as he sucked, hard. John’s body bowed in his lap and he let a long moan as he pushed himself down firmly on Sherlock, forcing him to accept the feeling. There was no escaping this. This wasn’t boring; this was itching the scratch that had dug into his skull. And come the wedding it would go.

Be greedy. Take everything. He’d never shared a thing in his life, and he wasn’t sure if he could share John.

“Sherlock, fucking hell… Sherlock.” John rambled but it only made Sherlock’s drunken mind egg his own body on to rock up inside of the heat. It was all biological; the need to release and fill another. But this wasn’t just biological, was it?

John was showing all the signs of a nearing climax and Sherlock didn’t know what to do except keep hitting the right angle to thrust up against his prostate. “Stay with me idiot, stay with me, please, please, please.” John babbled before everything went tense, ever fine line going taught. His head lolled back and he went slack.

The synapses finally hit his brain as if they’d been kept up inside a dam and attacked in a rush. Let go. Sherlock’s body responded.

Let go.

_Let go._

 . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The morning greeted Sherlock like a freight train and he wasn’t assaulted with the usual skull-numbing boredom that prevented him from swinging his legs over the bed and starting the day. The boredom wasn’t lingering and threatening to swallow him whole.

The bed was warm, odd. Turning his head and cracking it, Sherlock felt the full force of the headache set in. He pinched his bridge and sighed darkly. Well today was already decided: an aspirin and then something easy and light. Perhaps cataloguing the rate of skin peeling in various skin tones when exposed to sun. Yes, that would do.

Sherlock’s hand flopped over to reach the side table where an almost empty bottle lay and instead smacked into something warm and soft.

“Fucking hell.” John shot up immediately, his reflexes still as sharp as when he was enlisted. “What’s going on—Jesus Christ my head.” He flopped back down, not noticing the company.

Lifting up the covers to check, Sherlock’s face became a mask of defeat. Naked, both of them. Very much so. 

John picked up on their situation only moments later when he fisted his hair and looked around Sherlock’s room. Their clothes were strewn around the room.

The likelihood that something had transpired was almost exceeding one hundred percent (although that was entirely statistically impossible).  But what had occurred was completely blank. Even a shake of his head couldn’t shake sense back into himself. “We didn’t, did we?” John gaped beside him and Sherlock chose to ignore the annoying fish-faced expression beside him in favour of his mind.

Marks littered John’s lips, obviously the size of lips, they were speckled with small red dots—burst blood vessels—certainly from lips. Now whose lips? Sherlock leaned down until their shoulders touched and inhaled deeply. Men’s cologne, so that ruled out a woman and instead…

No.

Sherlock leaned down, ignoring John’s protests and sniffed again. Far too familiar, the headache was ruining his sense of deduction. Think! Yes, right, it was his own rarely used cologne that Ms. Hudson had (under the guise that it was actually a good gift and not a frivolous waste of money) bought for Christmas.

Why his cologne? Cologne was identifying. They had varying notes; middle, top and base notes, that the trained nose could detect. They caused seemingly invisible people to become visible. It identified people and that was why Sherlock detested it. And yet for the stag night he had, in a lapse of judgment, put it on for the occasion.

Pressing his legs together, Sherlock felt the dried lubrication where a condom had no doubt been.

“Sherlock, speak to me. Stop with all that bloody deducing and tell me this isn’t what I think it is.” He yanked the blankets up around himself. “I can see that vacant look!” 

Nevermind the fact that the clothes were obviously throw at an angle that inferred they were thrown from the bed in a hasty manner. The way John’s shirt’s arm was spread out meant it was thrown. Hasty movements from the bed…

_“Take the shirt off John.”_

_“I’m trying damnnit.”_

_“No, your fingers are attempting to fulfill a basic task and can’t. Let me.” Sherlock replied urgently as he deftly undid each button with an unmatched speed._

_A weak laugh escaped John as he pulled at Sherlock’s shirt collar to encase his mouth in a moody kiss. “Shut up Sherlock.”_

“No need to be modest John.” Sherlock finally said, turning his head slowly.

“Because we-?” His breathing hitched and the fear and guilt in his eyes was apparent. Sherlock’s mouth twitched and his stomach tightened uncomfortably.

John was a goldfish, but he wasn’t a stupid man. And yet-

“ _I’m greedy.”_

“No. No we didn’t. I remember what happened, you decided it would be hilarious to remove our clothes and go scare Ms. Hudson into an early grave. You really do have a sadistic, exhibitionist streak while drunk.” He forced a small laugh. “Please John, while I’m flattered I consider myself married to my work.”

John’s face cracked in relief and a smile spread across his features. He wasn’t an idiot, Sherlock was sure he had half the mind to connect the dots but this was a lie he was ready to consume and believe with the fervor of a devout Catholic. The second strongest lies are the ones we tell ourselves. 

He broke into a laugh and rolled off the bed and Sherlock’s eyes didn’t miss the small limp in his steps. It didn’t seem to faze him as he tugged his clothes back on. His smile was still firmly taped onto his face.

Ms. Hudson, for all her mindless chatter, was right. It was the end of an era. Mary’s was beginning and for once, Sherlock knew where he should be; placed firmly on the outside.

The strongest lies are the ones we tell to protect others.

 

 

            

**Author's Note:**

> This is a quick one shot smut ficlet I created pretty much the moment S3E2 ended. I... I had a lot of feelings. Thanks to Pearbear and Jaybabe for looking it over.
> 
> (Under my Red Pants Purple Shirt name before)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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